Southward
by corsair-of-umbar
Summary: Rumors have swept through Middleearth that the Haradrim are preparing for an assault upon Gondor. In a desperate attempt to make peace, the Steward's brother sends emissaries southward. But will they succeed? The fate of Gondor lies in their hands!
1. Chapter 1: Pelargir

**Southward**

**A Lord Of the Rings Fanfiction**

**BY CORSAIR-OF-UMBAR**

NOTE This tale takes place shortly before the War of the Ring begins. Middle-Earth was very aware of Sauron's presence at the time, but he was not in open warfare against Gondor yet. All of the living characters (not including historical characters mentioned) in this tale are my creations (i.e. they do not appear in J.R.R. Tolkien's books or appendices, with the exception of Sauron). 

**1. Pelargir**

As a Pelargian born and bred, I was always taught to fear and hate a people simply known as "the Haradrim" or "the Southrons". It seems everybody in Pelargir hated and feared them. So why should I be any different?

Nobody in the great city of Pelargir had actually met a Man of Harad. So why are they such terror-invoking people? This question I posed to my grandfather, Orûmir. He looked at me as if I was asking him why Sauron was evil.

"Varatul, the people of Sutherland are to be feared because they fear us. Fear leads to hate, hate leads to war. War leads to further fear. Too often has Gondor fought with the Haradrim, too often have the sands of Harondor run red with the blood of Gondorian and Southron alike."

This was a rather circular statement, but I couldn't get any more information out of him. The old warrior had slumped down into his comfortable elk-hide armchair.

I could see why the Corsairs of Umbar were to be hated and feared. Pelargir lived in constant threat of an attack from the terrifying black-sailed frigates and dromonds. I had only once seen a Corsair ship while I was on watch. At the Delta of the Great River Anduin it had been, a tiny black dot, almost indiscernible. Others had seen it too, and reacted with astonishing speed with horror clearly visible in their eyes. Everybody armed him- or herself and the great Catapult of Barad Aerhir was loaded and the string was taut. For two hours we had waited, until the ship finally turned about and left. I imagine they had a good laugh at seeing us stand there, tense and agitated.

Umbar had, in fact, once been one of the greatest cities of Gondorean Men, to be rivaled with Minas Tirith, the White Tower. I had visited Minas Tirith once on a field trip, and did not enjoy it much. It was a rather flowery place full of trivial ceremonies and false good manners. But never mind Minas Tirith for now…where was I? Ah, yes, Umbar…

But you don't even know what our great city of Pelargir looks like! Well, I'll describe it to you. Pelargir is built on the confluence of the river Sirith and the Anduin. A wide canal, once also a stream, has been built between Sirith and Anduin, creating a triangle of land in the middle upon which central Pelargir is built. Three canals divide this triangle into three parts. Where these canals meet, a large triangular lake is formed, called the Garth of Royal Ships, or simply "the Garth". It is the center of our harbour. Right in the middle of this lake, yes, in the exact middle of all Pelargir, is a great Tower, Barad Aerhir, upon which the ancient Catapult is kept. There is no bridge to it, the tower is only attainable by boat. It is the last refuge should our city be under siege from land or sea. To the west and north-east of the Triangle are two crescent-shaped slices of town, on the shores of Sirith and the canal. Here live the common fisherman of Pelargir (the triangle is for nobles, merchants and other professions).

Back to Umbar. Originally a Númenorean colony, it remained in control of the southern seas until Sauron corrupted them, turning them into Black Númenoreans, who were evil as he was. They formed an alliance with the Haradrim, and attacked Gondor many times before the mighty Ship-kings, under whose rule Gondor reached its peak, attacked by sea and regained Umbar. Possession of the haven slipped many times back and forward between the Men of Gondor, and the Haradrim and Black Númenoreans.

Who in Gondor hasn't heard of the Kin-strife, that disastrous civil war which led to our steady decline?

What? You haven't? (sigh) I guess I'll have to explain it then.

Rhovanion, which we now call Wilderland, was once one of the mightiest Kingdoms of Men. In an attempt to hold the fragile alliance between Rhovanion and Gondor, the King's (Rómendacil II's) son married Vidumavi, a princess of Rhovanion. Many Men were against the mixing of high Númenorean blood with common Middle-men (for the Men of Gondor were descended from the men of Númenor), especially those of the Coastal Provinces, such as Belfalas, Tolfolas and Anfalas (or Langstrand).

Vidumavi bore a child who was named Eldacar. When he attained the throne, he was a just and fair ruler, but the rebels, led by a man named Castamar, did not like a half-Rhovanian on the throne, and marched to Minas Tirith in numbers far greater than those of Eldacar. A great battle was fought at the Crossings of Erui, and Eldacar was defeated. The rightful King fled north into his half-homeland, Rhovanion.

Castamir took the crown, but he was a ruler. A coastal man born and bred, he concentrated too much on the sea and building a fleet, and let the land of Gondor fall slowly into decay. Eldacar marched into Gondor with a great host of Rhovanians and retook the throne. Castamir ran for his life, and set sail with as many men as he could fit in his fleet. They settled in Umbar, and founded the Corsairs.

There is growing unease in Gondor, especially in Pelargir and the coastal provinces, for word has it that the Corsairs are preparing for a massive assault. And since the Corsairs and the Haradrim are in close alliance, if not in coalition, the mighty armies of Harad will soon attack as well. Our present Steward, Oratharn, is even now strengthening the guard on the Crossings of Poros, and sending soldiers to Tolfolas, the great island stronghold nestled in the Bay of Belfalas, offering Pelargir protection against the Corsairs. I wonder what they were doing that time I spotted a Corsair ship in the delta…

Yes, indeed, the Corsairs were Pelargir's worst enemies, but why the Southrons? They had invaded Gondor a few times, but nobody had heard from Harad in three centuries. The South had a certain black mystery to it, and it was a mystery I intended to solve. Nobody I knew in Pelargir knew a lot about the Haradrim, not even the wise old librarian, Garthmir. The books in the Library of Pelargir spoke of Elves, Dwarves, Wizards, Kings and heroic deeds, but never of Harad! Even if they did mention the South, only in passing. They also mentioned something called a _mûmak_. What could that be?

My growing curiosity with the South worried my mother. "That boy will catch his death one day, rambling on'n'on about Corsairs and Variags and the like. Mark my words, his precious Southrons'll come up when he's not expecting it, and…" (here she would draw her finger across her throat, in a cutting motion).

The Steward Oratharn's brother, whose name was Oradir, had a son who was about my age, (which is 21, by the way) and since Pelargir had the best school in Gondor, Fírieldúrbein son of Oradir was soon sitting right next to me in the geography lesson.

Professor Orûmir, the geography teacher (also my grandfather), was droning on and on about the Elf-kings of Mirkwood, and try as I might to listen to him (well, he's my grandfather! I might as well pay some respect), I simply could not stay interested. I was nearly falling asleep when I heard the deep, but somehow trustworthy, voice of Fírieldúrbein next to me.

"Excuse me, Sir, could you please tell me a little about Harad?"

My ears perked up immediately. Why would Fírieldúrbein, kinsman to the Steward, possibly want to know anything about Harad, sworn enemies of Gondor? Well, maybe it was just a spurt of curiosity, but why Harad? Why not Númenor or Lórien, the lands most of the others would ask about?

"Well, Fírieldúrbein, you're supposed to learn about the Elf-kings of the Great Wood today, but…" He quailed under the stern glance of Fírieldúrbein. "…since it's you…Harad is a mighty land, ten times Gondor's size, which is south of Gondor. To reach it, you would have to take the Harad Road through Harondor, or South Gondor (although it isn't under our rule any longer), and cross the River Harnen. Then you would be in Near Harad, a sparsely forested land populated by constantly warring tribes. Just south of the River Harnen you would reach the town of the largest of these tribes, which is called Gorbaktu. Here the Harad Road crosses the Road of the Corsairs, which runs West to the Havens of Umbar and East to the land of the Variags, Khand. Further south you would reach a great desert, the _Sahra-dashrat _in the tongue of Harad, which takes a month to cross. South of the _Sahra-dashrat _is the mysterious land of Far Harad, where black men live who are said to be half-trolls."

The class was stunned, especially Fírieldúrbein and I. Where in the world did Grandfather Orûmir get all that info from?? Certainly he knew more than he cared to let on, but I resolved not to ask him as he sometimes got very irritable

At that moment, the great bell of Pelargir tolled the third hour. School was over. Grandfather glanced at me knowingly, but I barely noticed it because I desperately needed to speak with Fírieldúrbein. The Steward's nephew lived with a distant relative in the Triangle, in Peldëlendin (the nobility quarter) to be exact, which was across the Sirith from our school. There is a bridge with shops on it, a masterpiece of architecture, which we crossed without due hesitation.

As soon as I disembarked my little rowboat, Fírieldúrbein wheeled about. Eyes blazing, he faced me (I guess he didn't know I was there…)

"What right do you have to follow me, fisher boy? You forget who I am!" I had the feeling that back home in Minas Tirith, Fírieldúrbein got his way without question, and princes could be stubborn, so I decided to tell him the truth.

"I want to know why you asked about Harad in geography today." Fírieldúrbein's eyes, which were deep and questing, almost black, lit up with surprise (I could swear, pleasant surprise) but he quickly covered it with suspicion.

"What do YOU care whether I want to know about Harad or not?" I have a few talents, and face-reading is one of them. I could see behind the suspicion that Fírieldúrbein saw a mutual ally or even friend in me.

"Well, I don't really know what it is, but ever since I was old enough to know of Harad, I have wanted to travel there. By the way, do you know what a _mûmak _is? None of the books I've read…"

Fírieldúrbein looked around nervously, but the narrow street in which we were was deserted, but for a gull picking at a half-rotted fish (here I must add that Pelargir smells quite horribly of fish, but if you live here, you get used to it). "Come, we need to talk," he hissed, and darted into a tiny alley off to the left. I followed Fírieldúrbein as he threaded through the maze of the Triangle, and marveled at the fact that a boy who hadn't lived in Pelargir a month knew the alleys better than me. Then again, I rarely visit the Triangle.

The Tirither (as we Pelargians call those of Minas Tirith) led me down what seemed like the millionth passage, and then stopped so suddenly that I rammed into him and had to excuse myself by saying I tripped over a paving-stone (the streets of Pelargir are composed of many interlocking stones). Before us rose a 20-foot wall, which ended in forbidding iron spikes. Nearly invisible were the little handles in the wall, and almost indiscernible was the fact that one of the iron spikes was missing.

With the agility of a spider, Fírieldúrbein climbed up the wall, perched at the top, and to my horror, jumped. When I in my turn climbed the wall, I saw that he had landed in a cleverly positioned pile of leaves. The wall was the garden wall of one of Pelargir's many luxurious houses, positioned on the edge of the town.

"Well, come on! We have much to speak of, and I have to pack!" Not wishing to anger one of royal blood, I jumped and landed comfortably in the pile of leaves. We then weaved through a myriad garden full of strange, exotic plants, some of which looked rather forbidding such as the ten-foot one with a gaping mouth, which in biology I had learned was called the Trap of Núrn.

Fírieldúrbein's house was a luxurious one, a real palace. His room, however, was even smaller than mine, with a simple bed which wasn't even comfortable, a small window through which we had climbed using another hidden ladder, and a bookshelf with about ten dusty books on it, all flimsy paperback things. The one which I could best read (the one facing outward) was "_How to Sweep_". There was an open cupboard containing several brooms and other cleaning things.

"Isn't this a luxurious chamber? Wouldn't you just love to live here?" said Fírieldúrbein, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

"Well, not really, because no offence, Fírieldúrbein, but it looks like a storage room to me. Aren't there larger rooms in this house?"

The door, which was falling off its hinges, was swung angrily open, to reveal a long corridor. "There's THIS!" snarled Fírieldúrbein, opening another door on a room about one and a half times the size of our entire house. "And THIS!" Another room, smaller but with a soft, velvet four-poster bed. "And THIS!" A library full of comfortable couches, which he could easily have slept on.

"But…" I was speechless. If the house was so full of spare rooms, why did the Steward's kin have to sleep in a broom cupboard?

"You still don't get it, do you?" said Fírieldúrbein in a hopeless tone. I thought for a moment. Who owned this house? And then it clicked.

"Fishing Guild-master Oradroin? He's the one who your father sent you to live with? He's the one who's forcing you to sleep in that tiny cubicle? But he's the most generous man in Pelargir! Every day he gives us a free fish…"

Fírieldúrbein was shaking his head. "Oradroin? Don't make me laugh! Those fish he gives you are all rotten. Ask your parents. They don't tell you because you probably have a rebellious spirit, you might have gotten yourself killed. I can't believe you didn't know!" At this he lifted his shirt to reveal a crisscross pattern of angry welts. Some were brown and scabby, while some were barely finished bleeding. "He beat me last night for trying to tell a merchant from Lamedon about these atrocities."

I felt anger well up inside me. "How can he get away with this?" I didn't realize it, but my fists were clenching with anger. I guess Fírieldúrbein was right, I do have a rebellious spirit.

"Oh, he has a veritable army of bodyguards, at least fifty of them, who patrol Pelargir and make sure nobody tells anybody about Oradroin. He's got everything figured out." Fírieldúrbein gave a short bark of angry laughter.

"The Fisher Patrols? They are Oradroin's guards?" Fírieldúrbein nodded. "They've never told ME not to tell anybody about the atrocities!" I continued.

"A, you didn't know, and B, have you ever left Pelargir in your life? Didn't think so." I had a few times, but that was beside the point.

I used to think of Oradroin as a fat, jovial character who had a congenial relationship with the town. Now he struck me as an obese man with a beer-belly, who was constantly lying and flattering to get his way. Strange, how in five minutes my view of him was changed!

"But we have to do something! We have to throw him down and get a new guild-master! I know plenty of people who'd make a good one, my father, for instance, and…"

Fírieldúrbein shook his head again. "Sorry, Varatul, but he's just too strong. And even if you succeeded with your little coup, Oradroin has very good connections in Minas Tirith: my father, for instance. Your head would be off before you knew it."

We walked back into the room. Fírieldúrbein sat down on a little stool, while I flopped onto the bed. "OW! That thing is made of rock, or something as hard as rock!"

Fírieldúrbein held out his hand to me after I stopped massaging myself. "I like you. You remind me of myself about five years ago. No offense meant, of course, but I guess in Minas, you learn a bit more about the world than in Pelargir."

I shook his hand, and a friendly smile appeared on his lips, the first time I've seen him smile. Oh yes, something I should mention, I don't really have many good friends in Pelargir. Ever since I've been going to the library and reading books about Harad and the Corsairs of Umbar, everyone in school thinks I'm a traitor. My best friend's name is Poralorn, he's just about as crazy about Rhûn and the East as I am about Harad and the South. He left four months ago on a journey to Minas Tirith, I think he wants to become a Knight of Gondor, he's full of battles and sword-clashes and all that. He's older than me, finished with school, 30 years.

"Sorry, Varatul, for being so standoffish, but when you live with someone like Oradroin, it's hard to be friendly when nobody's a friend to you," apologized Fírieldúrbein.

"I know the feeling. So, what are we going to do about that horrible guild-master? I can tell you have a plan, from the way you looked when I mentioned Harad."

"Do? Didn't I already tell you? There's nothing we CAN do to get rid of Oradroin. But I have to admit that you are right, I do have a plan. It's not my plan, but…"

I was burning with curiosity. With a secretive smile, the second I've seen him give, he reached down under his bed and drew out one single book, entitled "_Harad, Khand and Umbar: A Southward Journey" _It was an anonymous book.

"Ever wondered why the Pelargir library's Southern shelf has one empty slot?" he said. I stared dumbly at the cover. The words were written in a thin but elaborate script, rather loopy, and the cover depicted a massive animal which is quite difficult to describe.

It was the size of a small hill (no, seriously!); its skin was grey and wrinkly. It had huge ears the size of the tablecloth back at home in our dining room, and a long nose like a great serpent, drooping almost to the floor. From this nose two small horns jutted, below this two pairs of massive, curved tusks, which were serrated and fearsome-looking. The beast's eyes were almost round, as opposed to the almond-shaped eyes of Men and Women. Its mouth was open, as if uttering a great battle cry, and in its eyes was a furious red glint. Its legs were as thick as the trunk of the greatest tree imaginable. Simply the sight of it frightened me, and I prayed that if I ever saw one of these terrible creatures, I would not anger it. For if it was on the cover of a book of the South, I would probably find it in the South.

"You asked me what a _mûmak _is. This is one. They are also known as Oliphaunts. The Men of Harad use them as massive siege towers, as you can see in this picture." He opened the book to a page with another of these _mûmak _creatures, this time wearing a pagoda on its back. The front of its head, including the nose, was tattooed with intricate lettering which I could not understand. The pagoda was many-tiered, an elaborate construction. It bristled with dark-skinned Men holding spears and bows, and right on the top of the _mûmak's _head sat a man, at least six feet tall, who was leading this beast.

"Well, now I know why we in Pelargir fear those of Harad…" I mused. Fírieldúrbein smiled grimly.

"It gets worse." He flipped the page again. This time there was a _mûmak _in battle, a towering island among many Men. The Oliphaunt was in the act of swinging its head, and dozens of Men were flying through the air next to it, obviously because of the Harad-creature's swinging motion.

"And…" Another picture of a _mûmak_, radically different from the others. It was standing peacefully, with no serration on its tusks, no tattooing on its nose, no pagoda on its back, but the biggest difference was that it had no angry glint of murder in its eyes. It was standing next to a grove of strange trees, about half the size of the _mûmak,_ like pillars with a small fan of wide leaves on top of it. Under these trees was a small pool, out of which the creature was drinking using his tubelike nose.

The caption below the picture read, "Most beings of Middle-earth despise the _mûmakil _because they only know the mad, war-driven beast which it suddenly becomes once it passes its hundredth birthday (they are very long-lived and some live to be two thousand years old). Baby _mûmakil _are friendly, amiable creatures which are well-loved in the villages of Far Harad. For more information about _mûmakil _transformation, turn to pg. 245."

Nobody spoke for a moment. Fírieldúrbein took out of his pocket a beautifully carved miniature model of a _mûmak_ and fingered it, a sad expression on his already careworn face. I noticed for the first time how the Steward's nephew's face had been smooth and happy the first day in Pelargir. What a contrast to now. Thought wrinkles creased his forehead, his eyes seemed more hallowed than they had been.

"A gift from my mother," said Fírieldúrbein. I sensed that he was holding back tears. "She died when I was only three. Murdered, she was. My father always told me she drowned in the Anduin, but I know better. She was found in her bed, a kn-knife in her chest…this is all I have left from her." There was no disguising the tears now that ran down his cheeks, which I noticed were darker than those of any other Gondor person. Too much exposure to the sun on the Ninth Ring of Minas Tirith, I supposed.

I was quiet for a few minutes, then I gently asked him, "What does Oradroin have to do with Harad?"

Fírieldúrbein took a shaky breath, then began to talk. "If I stay here any longer, I will do one of three things, or perhaps two, or maybe all three: be beaten to death, try to fight him and be beaten to death, or lose my mind and be beaten to death. I need to get away!" His tone dropped. "You look like someone who can keep a secret--even under torture. Am I right?"

There were plenty of secrets I had kept under torture…and I obviously can't tell you what they are. I nodded yes for Fírieldúrbein.

"I'm on a mission. Word has come from scouts that the Haradrim and the Corsairs of Umbar are preparing for a massive assault on Gondor, perhaps even the entire Haradrim. It is rumored they are in league with Sauron himself! Steward Oratharn is strengthening the watch on the Crossings of Poros, as well as in Tolfolas and on the coast, but the guards are still pitifully small compared to the Haradrim masses. And they don't know anything about how to fight the _mûmakil_! The border troops will be overrun like grass under a horse's feet, and then nothing will stand between the Haradrim and Pelargir. You live in a fading city, Varatul. Your walls are crumbling, your guards are few. Pelargir would be destroyed. Something has to be done, Oratharn does not realize how serious this is, or is too afraid to admit that his realm is in danger. We need to make peace with the Haradrim, and fast."

Fírieldúrbein breathed in deeply, while I drank it in. Not such a pleasant prospect.

"Have you ever been to Tolfolas? I'm sure you've heard of it. A great citadel, protecting Pelargir from attacks by the Corsairs, and so on? Do you know what Tolfolas actually is? A fishing village which doesn't even know the Corsairs of Umbar exist, sitting right next to a ruinous citadel with a few lackey guards. Your Catapult may be impressive, but there's no way it could sink an entire Corsair fleet before enough of them got ashore to pillage the city. Believe me, if the Haradrim and Corsairs are truly preparing for an attack, Pelargir will be the first to fall."

"As if that isn't enough, the Easterlings of Rhûn are also massing in great numbers...perhaps to attack? Oratharn seems to be more afraid of wild Men toting rusty axes than very real _mûmakil _which are ten stories high, because he's already sent a Knight of Gondor beyond the Sea of Rhûn to abate them. Do you know, the Steward doesn't believe in Oliphaunts?"

I looked at the cover of _Harad, Khand and Umbar: A Southward Journey _again. Orathorn'll sure get a fright if he sees them!

Fírieldúrbein was very excited now, and talking so quickly I could barely understand him.

"My father Oradir is wiser than his brother. He has already sent an emissary south towards Gondor. This emissary has been living in Pelargir for a month, getting information from the library for his journey. He would have left a week ago but for his uncle's mother's husband's third wife's first husband's son's cruel cousin, the Guild-master of Fish."

I was stunned. That was a LOT of information to receive in about five minutes, and I had to lie down on the floor (marginally more comfortable than the bed) for a moment to take it all in. Finally I spoke.

"How could somebody send their son right into Gondor's sworn enemy's country? I mean, what are the chances of you surviving on your own in Harad?"

Fírieldúrbein threw his hands over his head. "Oratharn is extremely jealous of my father, because Dad would make a much better Steward and he knows it, so Oradir has very little actual power in Gondor. If he would, the people would probably want him on the throne, and Oratharn would become rather unpopular. Oh, a political world is Minas Tirith…"

"But there's no way you can travel through Harad alone! Can you even speak the language?"

"_Umbusul gordatil bo gordala mûmakil kem beledtorga bakti! _That's a sentence in the Haradic language which means: Watch out, there's an Oliphaunt charging at you! And you are right, I'd never make it alone. Which is why you're coming with me." Uh, what?

"Hmm…I must have heard wrong. For a moment it sounded like you said 'You're coming with me', but that is ridiculous…I'd never be allowed! My father would never allow me to go, he'd kill me if I ran away, and even if he didn't the Haradrim would…"

Fírieldúrbein looked at me with a bemused expression on his face. "This coming from the person who just two minutes ago was burning with desire to go to Harad and the South? Don't tell me now that you've been given a chance to go to the land you've always wanted to see, you are AFRAID to go? Well, there are fools in the world…"

I digested this for a moment. To actually see a wild _mûmak_! To stand on the hill on Cape Umbar and look out over the harbor full of great ships, with the Corsair city nestled at its end! To cast my eyes across the _Sahra-dashrat, _the endless sea of sand! All of a sudden, going to Harad looked like the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Fírieldúrbein, I would jump up at this opportunity if only I would be allowed! And how in Morgoth's name do you plan on evading Oradroin? No, my friend, I don't think it's feasible…"

Fírieldúrbein, who I was growing to respect as a leader more and more, assured me that he had everything planned. "Look, tomorrow I'll come over to your house and have dinner with your family. My cousin, Ordolaf son of Oratharn, is coming to Pelargir soon because of your school, which has a bit of a reputation. I'll say that he's being exchanged with you, meaning he goes to your school and you go to his, meaning you would be officially going to Minas Tirith for an exchange, but what you would actually be doing is traveling South with me to Harad and Umbar. And Oradroin…well, when he's not beating me he doesn't really care about me. You may have noticed I have a good escape route prepared…I wander around Pelargir when Oradroin is at the Guild. What do you think? About the plan, I mean."

What did I think? The plan was absolutely flawless! My parents absolutely fawned over Minas Tirith, but couldn't afford to go there. They'd approve on the spot. The only problem will be stopping them coming with me.

"I think it's an absolutely perfect plan. Without you, I probably would never have made it further than the Crossings of Poros. This is truly the chance of a lifetime for a poor Pelargian fisher's son." I shook hands vigorously with Fírieldúrbein, who was slightly bemused at this sudden change of mood. I realized then that the situation was more than a little strange. Here I was, positively itching to leave my family and my beloved hometown to run off towards near-certain death with basically a stranger?

It'll be the time of my life! 


	2. Chapter 2: Departure

2. Departure

"What did you say?" I couldn't believe it.

"I said you are NOT going to Minas Tirith in five days, as terrific as that city may be! You've got three months left of school, including your examinations! Pass me the fish oil. Besides, we have no money! You should be grateful that we feed you every day."

Scowling, but seething inside, I walked over to a shelf and slung the stinking yellow liquid over to my mother. She made a grab for it, missed, and it smashed all over the floor.

"Varatul! You can clean that up, and don't argue, Minas is out of the question!" She handed me a sweeper and a broom. I dutifully swept up the glass shards and mopped the floor, grumbling all the time.

"Varatul, visitor for you." Orûmir stuck his head into the steaming, fish-reeking kitchen. "And by the way, I'm all for you traveling to Minas Tirith, your teacher or no. When I was a Citadel guard there, I received this map, it might be useful. Oh, and Urubalin," this being my mother, "cease your chatter. It would be good for the boy." With a grateful glance at Grandfather, I looked at the map, which was amazingly detailed. It showed all nine Rings of the city, and the Hall of Kings at the very peak. It showed the Tree of Gondor, and the great prow-shaped rock, which towered over the rest of the city. I pocketed it, then realized that it wouldn't be of much use, seeing as we were traveling South, not North.

Fírieldúrbein was waiting at the door. We greeted each other, and then I showed him into the poorly lit main hall. Our house was little more than a hut. To the left were two rooms, the kitchen and the dining room. To the right were two further rooms, my parents' bedroom and that of my six-year-old sister and I. A shadow approached us from the left, the kitchen side

"Welcome to our humble home! Oh, my, you're that visitor from Minas Tirith, aren't you, um…Fireldoorben, right? You're the Steward's nephew! What an honor! I knew we were expecting a friend of Varatul's tonight, but certainly not one of royal blood! And me in my cooking things! Oh, goodness, I really must change, please excuse me for a minute, I'll be right back, wait right here!" My mother left two boys with ears still ringing from her onslaught of words.

"Well, that's a very good summary of my mother," I smirked at a Fírieldúrbein, who was furiously stifling laughter. After this remark, he gave it up and began howling with laughter. I fervently hoped my family members didn't hear (note: they didn't)

Five minutes later we were all sitting around the table. My mother, wearing a rather tight dress which looked like a pretty bad attempt to make herself look decent in my opinion, came bursting into the room, carrying a huge pot of some kind of fish stew.

"Well, Fíri (May I call you that? Your name's so long, hehe), I'm afraid our humble kitchen cannot compare with even the least of Minas Tirith's majestic food houses; it's usually fish, or some variation of fish. Of course, that's all right if you like fish, which we happen to, since it's our job, of course, but…"

"All right, all right, don't drown him with words," said my father quietly, lighting his pipe, puffing, and letting small clouds rise up to the thatched roof. This pretty much described my father. He was a quiet man (much the opposite of my mother, oddly), and had three loves in the world: fish, family and his pipe.

Orûmir, who was always an animated member of dinner conversation, spoke up. "I hear Varatul is to travel on exchange to Minas Tirith. Well, I, for one, agree wholeheartedly that this exchange would do him a mountain of good; I'm afraid my daughter does not…"

Fírieldúrbein, sitting next to me, hissed a quick reprimand at me for telling my family; "you should have left it to me," but got no further because my mother started yet again.

"No, I absolutely do not! Fíri…" he rolled his eyes despairingly at me "…this is an extremely generous offer of yours, and I'm sure my son would be in good hands with you, and your city is quite wonderful (I've been there once, back when we had a bit of money), but we simply cannot afford them, and besides, we want Varatul to complete his schooling _here_, since it's the best school in Gondor, and he would not feel at home in Minas Tirith, he didn't last time he was there, plus he wouldn't know any of the teachers or students besides you, Fíri, and besides, we would miss him."

Until then, I hadn't met a better arguer than my mother. Fírieldúrbein, though he didn't look like it, was almost irrefutable, as he proved by throwing these arguments on the table.

"Well, Madam Urubalin, let me enlighten you as to how this change will benefit your son. Though Pelargir may be all right for learning of things like language, sciences, and other such things. Minas Tirith has unrivaled schools for history, geography—no offense to your goodself, Professor Orûmir—and above all, fighting. He would come home more a Knight of Gondor than a poor fisher of Pelargir. Besides, he is being exchanged with none less than Ordolaf, son of Oratharn Steward of Gondor. The schools view your son as an equal with the Steward's offspring! This is an offer you cannot refuse. Indeed, you are not permitted to, for if you do, you may invoke the anger of the Steward himself. Believe me, as one who knows him personally, you do not want that to happen."

Orûmir began to applaud, . Even my father (who was named Varatul too—I was Varatul II) looked up from his pipe and glanced at Fírieldúrbein approvingly. As for my mother, she was floored. She stood gaping; fork halfway to her mouth with a dripping piece of vegetable speared upon it.

"Go to Minas Tirith, and welcome! I just hope you still come home, Minas Tirith has been known to ensnare travelers. When are you leaving? Oh, by the way, very well presented argument, Fírieldúrbein." Orûmir had obviously taken an instant liking to Oradir's son. As for me, I was very grateful to him, and he would certainly make a good Steward, better than that fat slob Ordolaf anyway.

The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully, mostly with Orûmir and Fírieldúrbein talking about Minas Tirith. My mother, for the first time in her life, was fairly quiet at the table, still a bit shell-shocked. I mostly listened to Orûmir and Fírieldúrbein's conversation, sometimes adding to it a little. Father was quiet, as usual.

Five days later, we were all standing outside the Northern Gate of Pelargir. Three roads ran into Pelargir: the Tirith Road, which led north to Minas Tirith; the Linhir Road, which led to the city of Linhir-on-Gilrain, and further west into the heart of Gondor; and the Poros Road, which began on the other side of Great Anduin and led west through South Ithilien and to the Crossings of Poros. This road was in ruin; very few Pelargians wished to travel towards the place they feared most.

Ideally, we would have taken the Poros Road, but since my family was supposed to believe we were headed for Minas Tirith, we had to leave on the Tirith Road and somehow circle back. Plus, we had to do it in pitch darkness, since Oradroin couldn't find out. He'd disapprove of a common fisher boy going to school in Minas Tirith

"Goodbye! Be a good boy, don't be disrespectful to anybody, after all, you're visiting the capital of our glorious land, and for heaven's sake listen to what people tell you to do, don't argue with the Citadel guards, and don't talk to everyone with this Harad nonsense, they'll laugh in your face, come back as soon as you can, goodbye, we'll miss you…"

"Farewell, Mother," said I, perhaps slightly forcefully. My father and namesake pressed my hand silently, his eyes twinkling with a rare smile. Orûmir handed me a huge list of names.

"If you see any of these people, send them regards from me. Don't stay too long, come back with plenty of stories!"

I shook hands with my grandfather, who I admired greatly. He had once been a Citadel guard, hence the list of names, and, before that, a traveler. He had been in Eriador, had visited the Woodland Realm of the Elves, and had feasted at the table of King Éler of Rohan. Well, how else did he become the geography teacher?

It was pouring rain that night, the third night in a row actually; very unpleasant to be traveling in, and there was no moon. My family soon disappeared out of sight, and it gave me a slight jolt to realize that I wouldn't see them again for at least another six months. That is, if (gulp) I ever see them again…

We stumped along in silence for about fifteen minutes, our boots making soft splotch-noises on the road, which had turned to mud by now. My feet were saturated already, and I hoped it wouldn't get colder. Then again, I figured, the further south one goes, the milder the climate gets. Indeed, if I ever cross the _sahra-bukti_, I will find myself remembering this night with envy!

I don't know how Fírieldúrbein spotted the tiny path leading off to the right. Even in broad daylight I probably wouldn't have seen it, tucked as it was between two bushy trees. We squeezed through the foliage, dislodging deluges of water onto our heads. Not that we cared, we were wet through and through anyway.

"Where are we going?" I asked. This new path branched and rejoined several times, but Fírieldúrbein seemed to be headed in one fixed direction; straight towards the river Anduin, in fact.

"Allies of my father await on the bank. They will ferry us across the Great River, then we can continue our journey in the right direction."

"You think of everything," I said. Thus ended our first conversation that night. I was still slightly shy around Fírieldúrbein. He just seemed to be much better at everything! He had everything planned, all the details were painstakingly thought out. Was there anything I could do that he couldn't? I would find out soon…

Just to see whether my suppositions were correct, I asked my companion a question that had been niggling me ever since we left. "We only packed provisions for three days," I broke the silence. "That won't be enough if we plan to cross Harondor. Where are we going to get new food?" I scrutinized his face, dark and wet in the rain, almost hoping to find one tiny spark of dismay. In vain, though, because he answered quickly.

"We'll meet another companion at Porosbridge, he's bringing horses and provisions." This rather short answer frustrated me into silence, and for a long time nothing could be heard except the quiet sloughing of the rain and our wet footsteps.

The path was by now a torrent, which washed about my ankles and flowed steadily before us. We only had to endure this for a short while, however, because as soon as we rounded the next bend, the land seemed to disappear.

Anduin was nearly three miles wide at this point, and the rain had caused it to swell into a choppy, ruthlessly flowing, muddy-brown (as it appeared by the flickering light of our lantern) force, which had burst its banks and was flooding the coast-lining fields. Just one look at that river frightened even me, an accomplished sailor. I certainly hoped Firíeldúrbein's contacts were excellent ones (sailors, I mean). I glanced over at him.

Was that…_fear _I saw on his face? It quickly disappeared, however, fast enough for me not to be completely sure.

About fifty feet off of the present shore (though this was not the natural one because of flooding) I saw a small clustering of dark shapes poking out of the water. The village of Hord, proclaimed a sign just off the path.

"Well," smirked Fírieldúrbein, "I hope the villagers of Hord had enough lifeboats."

Wow. Fírieldúrbein had a sense of humor? I certainly wouldn't have guessed. But I knew something he didn't know (oh…there _is _something!): every village on the banks of the Anduin had at least one boat per family. I was sure the inhabitants had safely rowed to Pelargir, which was about five miles downstream.

"GAARGH!" I practically jumped out of my skin, but thankfully didn't fall to the ground. If I had, I would have been swept downriver before you could say "Ouch!"

A man with a straggly beard stepped out of the bushes. He was taller than either of us, wore scanty clothes and carried a rusty scimitar in his belt. As he eyed the pair of us, it suddenly struck me that he was dressed like a Corsair of Umbar. Startled by this discovery, I drew my sword hastily, at which the stranger simply laughed.

"Put down yer blade, yew slimy fisher swab. I've been in more battles than ye've had suppers." He laughed heartily, and turned to Fírieldúrbein. "Disappointed me ye did, laddie. Lettin' yer guard down, eh? Now jes' imagine I wuz a bandit. Yew an' yer fishy friend 'ere'd be dead's'doornails, an' I'd 'ave all the luvly booty in yer packs."

To my surprise, Fírieldúrbein broke into a laugh, which nearly shook the water from the trees. "Chopbeard, it's been too long! So, how are things down in Umbar?"

"How d'yer think? Ev'ryone's stabbin' each other in the taverns, an' there's a new shipment o' palm wine from Far Harad, so…"

"More stabbing each other in the taverns," completed Fírieldúrbein.

Now, as you can expect, this conversation didn't exactly comfort me in any way. The contact was a Corsair? As a Pelargian, this didn't seem kosher to me.

"Uh…Fíriel? Are you sure this is our contact?" I whispered to him. "He's a Corsair! They are no friends of Gondor."

"He's not a Corsair. Well, he is, but he's certainly not evil. Chopbeard's a spy, one of quite a few in Umbar and Harad. That's how we know the Haradrim are preparing for an attack. Now, shut up and leave this to me." He turned back to the Corsair.

Chopbeard and Fírieldúrbein (who I will from now on refer to as Fíriel—'that's what all my friends call me' in his words) conversed with each other in low tones, which I was unable to hear, then a few gold coins were counted out to Chopbeard from Fíriel's money belt. I couldn't help noticing Chopbeard leered at the belt in a rather suspicious way. His teeth were few, and the few that were still intact, were rather yellow.

Chopbeard's boat was rocking back and forward in the waves a short walk downstream. It seemed to me a rather rickety thing, and I was not sure about the chances it had in the hands of mighty Anduin, but Chopbeard was a Corsair, and there were no better sailors than they. Even so, I stepped gingerly enough into that boat.

Chopbeard rowed with expertise, that much was obvious. He angled the boat against the wind so that we rode with the waves instead of crashing through them. This was slower and very bouncy (it made even me feel queasy; as for Fíriel, well, let's just say he had to lean over the side a lot), but certainly better than being smashed on the bulwark and being capsized.

Seeing as the wind came from the north-east, from Mordor (meaning it smelled slightly ashy), we had to row approximately in that direction. This took us directly through the village of Hord. Now, I don't know if a completely untrustworthy pirate has ever rowed you through a flooded, deserted village at night in driving rain. If you have, I feel sorry for you. If you haven't, I'd advise you never to try it.

Why not? Because the pirate will have three "hearties" hidden in the flooded houses, who will wade up to your boat, point bows at you and demand all your money and provisions. You guessed it, that's what happened to us.

"Sorry, boys, but the road ends here," clichéd Chopbeard. His minions sniggered automatically. All three were just as ugly as he, if not uglier.

Fíriel, who was taken extremely aback, shot me an extremely apologetic glance, then handed over his pack with a resigned sigh. He whispered a few sentences in Sindarin, the elven language.

I won't pretend to be fluent in Sindarin; in fact, I barely understand a word of it. However, I caught the gist of what he was saying; he wanted me to attack the pirates. Knowing perfectly well that Corsairs didn't understand Elvish, we were free to speak as loudly as we want.

I struggled for a moment, then managed to bring out a few words, roughly meaning: "Are you crazy?"

The Corsairs looked at each other nervously. Chopbeard drew his scimitar. "Now, now, boys, stop jabberin' an' hand over the dough!" He was obviously not quite as pleased as he had been a few seconds ago.

I quickly assessed the situation. One of the Corsairs was quivering so hard he couldn't hold his bow straight. He wasn't much of a threat, I decided. The other two were made of sterner stuff, it seemed. One of them kept his bow riveted on Fíriel's heart, the other kept his…wait a minute, _her _bow on mine. Three against two, if I counted, and I had a nagging feeling I didn't.

I tried to move my hand towards my sword, Haradblade. I managed to grasp the hilt without any of the pirates knowing. I kept my eyes on the pirates; it was all or nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, Fíriel gave the slightest nod. Here goes…

I jumped out of the boat foot first, straight towards the female pirate. She let go of her arrow instinctively, and it struck my boot, piercing through it and driving about half an inch into my sole. My boot connected with something with a sickening crunch, and the pirate fell stunned into the water, her nose broken. She was carried downstream quickly (in fact, it was all I could do not to meet the same fate; thankfully the water was only waist-high.

Fírieldúrbein was clashing swords with Chopbeard, but I couldn't pay attention to him because the second archer had loosed an arrow at me; I heard the distinctive _thwipp_. I threw myself aside, and the projectile grazed my shoulder. Before the pirate could nock another arrow, I had driven my sword into him. He gave a shriek of agony, which rang through the night, then fell backwards into the current, his eyes glazing over. I put my sword blade in the water to clean it off. I was shaking slightly; killing somebody is not such a light matter, especially if it's your first time. I felt slightly nauseous.

The third archer seemed to have fled. In fact, victory was ours! Fírieldúrbein had slain Chopbeard and flung his body into the river. There'll be some questions asked in Pelargir tomorrow…

I was suddenly hit by a wave of pain, originating from my foot and shoulder. It overwhelmed me, worming into my every joint and sending needles through my veins. I bit back my scream, but could not avoid a slight groan.

I don't remember much after that. Fíriel must have dragged me back aboard the rowboat, but the pain my wounds must have dazed me for about an hour, because when I came back to my senses we were floating past the light of Barad Aerhir, in Pelargir. My cuts were wrapped in the remains of one of the pirate's shirt.

Fírieldúrbein was sitting in the stern, gazing into nothingness. I spoke up. "Hello?"

"Varatul, you need to help me…" Fíriel's voice seemed to be on the verge of tears. He couldn't bring out another word, but he silently pointed at his neck. I gasped with horror.

A huge slash was there, at least five inches long, and still bleeding. Fíriel slumped backwards, and only my grabbing his leg saved him from falling in the river. I laid Fíriel down on the floor of the dinghy, and then ripped off my shirt. I frantically searched in the packs, but it seemed all the healing herbs were gone. All used on my wounds, I realized.

I wrapped Fíriel's neck to stem the bloodflow, then took the oars and headed for the far bank. It was no small task, for there was a mile of water to cross, but panic gave me strength, and thankfully the rain had stopped. I rowed, and rowed, and rowed…

_Crrrrunch! _My eyes snapped open. The boat had drifted onto a gently sloping, pebbly shore, washed by small waves. Gull cries corkscrewed painfully into my head, telling me that I had a headache. It was sunrise. I sat up, turning my eyes to Fírieldûrbein. He didn't look too good.

The shirt I had wrapped around his neck had been pale yellow. Now it was a deep shade of red. His face was pale from loss of blood. Snapping fully awake, I leaped into the knee-deep water and lugged the boat safely onto dry ground. Then I unwrapped the shirt, and winced immediately. Fíriel's wound had not closed, a dribble of blood still oozed from it. The wound extended from about an inch below his earlobe to his right collarbone, at the base of his neck.

I cast my eyes around the surroundings. I was no herbalist, but I had basic knowledge of healing plants. I spotted a small clump of a certain kind of weeds, whose name I had forgotten, but I recognized as a solution for stemming bloodflow. I ripped a few of the straggly plants out by the roots and shredded the leaves. I placed the leaves on the comatose Fíriel's neck, and then re-wrapped it in the shirt.

When Fíriel awoke, the sun was nearly directly overhead and glaring brightly. Barad Aerhir, Pelargir's Tower, was visible across the Anduin. In fact, the Poros Road led off to the southeast not a hundred yards from where we stood.

I was fishing with a homemade rod when my injured friend staggered up to me. His eyes were bloodshot and rolling wildly, his skin was very pale and his lips were cracked. He grasped my hand, and I almost had to draw back. It was burning hot!

"We—need to make it to Poros—before tomorrow nightfall…" Every word was an effort for him. He required an herbalist; otherwise I feared he would not survive long. I remembered that we were to meet an ally of Oradir, Fíriel's father, at Porosbridge. I deducted from Fíriel's words that they would leave if we didn't make it there tomorrow. But the chance of crossing South Ithilien and reaching Porosbridge in two days, a distance of nearly sixty miles, was unlikely, especially since I was supporting a companion who could barely stand without help, let alone walk.

A thought came to me. Why not simply cross the Anduin back to Pelargir, find medical assistance there and return to Porosbridge some time later? Two points shattered this idea almost at once: the first being that Fíriel's companion would leave if we didn't show up, taking with him horses and provisions; the second being that the boat which had carried us this far had sprung a leak and was even now half-full of water. Never would it cross the already-flooded Anduin without sinking.

Thus we broke camp and left immediately. It was a strenuous journey, for I had to support Fírieldûrbein, not to mention our traveling-packs. Countless times I tripped over a rut in the Poros Road, which had fallen into disrepair. And when I fell, Fíriel fell with me. By two o'clock, we had covered only three miles, a twentieth of what lay before our feet. To make things worse, our food provisions were running low. I determined to give Fíriel half of my ration every mealtime; his need was greater than mine. Fortunately we had the fish I had caught in Anduin.

At six o'clock, the terrain began to change. The road slanted slightly upward, out of the wide, shallow Anduin Valley, and we entered a damp wood, into which little light was filtered. Wild animals loped along the side of the road, but never attacked. Even so, I kept Haradblade out, just in case.

On the far side of the forest was a small village. We staggered into it at about half-past eight. I was exhausted, and Fíriel was worse than before. He was no longer speaking, but was mumbling incoherently. I heard the word _mûmak _several times, and presumed he was having one of those wild dreams, which so often strike during fever. By now I was convinced that Chopbeard's sword, which had caused this wound, had been poisoned in some way.

The village, which was nameless, consisted of about twenty huts. The largest of these was called _The Stampeding Oliphaunt_, and was obviously the town inn and pub. The innkeeper, a man with a kindly face, accepted Fíriel free of charge and tried his best to treat the wound while I slept, a well-deserved rest. He also supplied me with a new shirt, since mine was wrapped around Fíriel's wound.

The innkeeper woke me at six o'clock in the morning, far too early in my opinion. "Your companion slipped out of his delirium just long enough last night to relay that you need to reach Porosbridge by sundown today. Our village is still forty miles distant from Porosbridge, and you'll never make that supporting your friend. I've packed my horse and cart. I will bring you to Porosbridge." A smile crinkled his face. I thanked him gratefully, then packed my scant belongings together and headed out into the square with the innkeeper.

Fíriel lay sleeping in the back of the cart on a bed of hay. I felt his forehead. It was still hot, though not burning, and I could see behind his eyelids that he was being racked by more dreams. I took my place next to the innkeeper, whose name was Ol' Tom. He cracked the reins, and his mottled brown horse trotted off at a pace thrice that of walking.

"Say, Varatul ol' lad, you're a Pelargian, right? You wouldn't happen to know a certain Orûmir son of Éarderíl, would you? He'd be quite old, now. Your face reminds me of his," stated Tom after an hour or so of silent traveling. I was surprised.

"I should say so, good sir, he is my grandfather! How do you know him?" I replied, interested. Grandpa was certainly concealing more than I had thought!

"Oh, I don't know him that well, just in passing. He used to come through my town a lot, you know. Once every two years, I'd say." Tom took out an intricately carved pipe, in the shape of a leaping dolphin about to dive back into the waves. He packed some leaf into it, set it alight and took a puff. Smoke wafted around his head and mine. The smoke had a strange smell, a sharp, burning-wood sort of smell.

Ithilien, or Moonland, was once one of Gondor's most wealthy and prosperous fiefdoms. However, it is now only sparsely inhabited, a few villages sprinkled here and there. The reason for this sudden decline was, of course, Sauron, whose might grew every day. Ever since Sauron captured and renamed Minas Ithil, changing it into Minas Morgul (City of Sorcery), Ithilien has become an unfruitful place. The soil is hard and cracked when it is dry, the forests have died or become inhabited by wild wolves and bears. The hills, once covered with bright green grass, now only bear yellowed weeds. All in all, it was quite unnerving to travel through this wild country with only a horse, a cart, an ill friend and an old innkeeper for company. To make things worse, the cart bounced and bucked upon the rutted Poros Road, which now winded through hills as bare as the crown of Orûmir's head. Therefore, you can imagine my relief as we rolled over the last pass and were offered a view into Poros Valley.

It was a truly magnificent one, but not a very heartening one. The hills cast long shadows into the valley, darkening the large town of Porosbridge, which had formerly been a bustling city of ten thousand, but was now inhabited by a few hundred villagers and about 150 soldiers. These billeted in Poros Fort, a small bump next to the town. Directly ahead was the Emyn Poros, a small mountain range extending down from the looming Mountains of Shadow, Ephel Duath, on the horizon. Behind these dark and dangerous peaks lay the land of Mordor, Sauron's domain. I could understand why Porosbridge had become such an unpopular place to live. Squeezed between Harad and Mordor, they were in constant danger from foes.

South of Porosbridge, the River Poros snaked westward sluggishly. The color of this river was ash-gray, I had been told, because of its source in Mordor, which was a volcanic land. Fish were sparse in it, and those gloomy specimens that resided there tasted strongly of iron. But I barely noticed all this because of what lay beyond Poros.

A narrow strip of green land lay beyond the river, but this petered out into a great, almost flat expanse, grayish-yellow in color. Harondor, South Gondor, site of so many battles between Harad and Gondor. There were splodges of black in between the grayish-yellow. Small streams of smoke rose from these places. Harondor would have to be crossed if we were to fulfill our quest, and I can tell you I wasn't looking forward to it.

Tom and I trotted down the main road of Porosbridge, which had once been an important center of trade. Now, however, a wind whistled through it emptily, and the only signs of the market that had once been here were overturned stalls on the side of the road. A dismal place, I thought. I was to see much worse before the end, however.

We criss-crossed through the straggly network of streets, even more confusing than the alleys of Pelargir. Where exactly was our fellow traveler? Only Fíriel would know, and he lay in the back of the cart, oblivious to all.

After two hours of exhausting search (during which we met but two Porosbridgers), we gave it up and rode to the northern gate (in a state of disrepair), guarded by two men with ancient spears.

"We'll wait here. Your companion, whoever it is, will give up and think we didn't come, and head back home along this road. Then we can't miss him," suggested Ol' Tom.

This plan worked well. We waited less than twenty minutes before a person walked through the gate, leading five horses. I lifted my fisher hat to the person.

"Well met, good sir," I said, speaking politely because this was surely a Tirither, and probably one of high rank. Seventh Ring or higher, I presumed. "I am the companion of Fírieldûrbein. We are the Harad emissaries."

The person took off his helmet and released a cascade of wavy blond hair, which reached to his…sorry, _her _waist. For a girl it was, and what's more, a girl who was several times more beautiful than any other woman I had ever seen. The surroundings seemed to suddenly grow twice as colorful, and the girl appeared to be illuminated in a soft, white glow. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was an Elf.

Pelargir was a men's world in my time. What women there were, were all like my mother; coarse-tongued fisher wives. Therefore, I had never really been in love. However, this girl was something else. The grass grew greener where she walked, the sun seemed pale in comparison to her. Her hair looked softer than dove's feathers…

I felt a sharp stinging blow to my cheek. "Who are _you_? I knew Fíriel was bringing a companion, but _you_…" All of a sudden she seemed a bit less beautiful. "And stop staring at me! I'm already taken, in case you're wondering. Even if I wasn't, you're the last man I'd choose. Now, where is Fíriel? I missed him…"

Ol' Tom pointed to the back of the cart. Stunned by this cold greeting, I followed.

The girl took one look at Fíriel and already tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Fíriel? What happened? It's me, Lërawen! Speak to me, my love! SPEAK!" Her voice was like the most beautiful music you could ever imagine. She shook him. Fíriel's eyes snapped open, but they stared right past her into the sunset. He mumbled something incoherent.

Lërawen shoved me roughly aside as she sprinted towards her horses. Not expecting it, I fell down hard. Lërawen rummaged in the sidebag of the largest horse and drew out a small package of herbs. With a disgusted look at me, she flew back to Fírieldûrbein's side.

Five of the small leaves she fed into Fíriel's quaking mouth. The rest she rubbed into the wound, which had closed but was still raw and red. I watched, fascinated, as some of the color crept back into his face. She re-wrapped the wound with my old shirt, and then faced me with a terrible—yet beautiful—expression on her face.

"He was poisoned with the venom of _Durbok-_snakes. The Corsairs of Umbar use this on their weapons. Tell me, boy, couldn't you recognize that he was poisoned? He has lost almost a gallon of blood! If I hadn't administered the antidote, he would have died in the night! Tell me; are you so incompetent that you don't even know how to wrap a wound? He was nearly strangled!!! And why, in SAURON'S NAME, did you lead him into the clutches of a Corsair??"

"Well, I didn't exactly lead…" Lërawen, who was about half a head taller than I, turned away disgustedly. I glanced over at Ol' Tom. He smiled, revealing the fact that he only had seven teeth. "Well, Varatul me lad, I think she loves yer! Heeehehehe!" I scowled at him, but my expression softened quickly.

"I owe you my friend's life, good innkeeper. Without you, we never would have made it here in time to find the correct antidote to his poison. Take this as payment. It's not a lot, but it's all we have." I drew out a small sack of gold coins. Tom untied the sack, and his eyes lit up.

"Why thank you, Varatul, 'tis quite adequate a payment!" He hoisted himself up onto the cart and snapped the reins. As he rode off, he called back to me, "I hope we meet again soon! Tell Orûmir Ol' Tom says hello!" Then the cart rounded a bend and he was out of sight.

"Fool!" I was knocked to the ground by a sudden blow. "Why did you give that old man all the money we had?" Lërawen towered over me; she had been listening in. "Now we're broke. Good going, Master Traveler!"

She raised her fist, ready to strike me again, when a raspy voice called from behind her, "Lëri? Is it?" She whirled around. Fírieldûrbein was sitting up, obviously an effort for him. Lërawen forgot me and moved over to where the Steward's nephew lay.

"Fíri! It's been too long," she said briefly, and then she embraced him. They stayed together for at least five minutes. I wanted to speak with Fíriel, but was afraid to draw out the wrath of Lërawen, so I kept my distance.

"Varatul! Come over here! Why do you stand out there like a servant?" Whatever flora had been used on Fíriel's wound, it certainly was effective, because his voice became stronger with every word spoken. I moved cautiously towards the two.

"Lërawen, this is Varatul. I owe him my life. I haven't known him longer than a month, and yet he finds the perseverance to bear me sixty miles in two days to Porosbridge. A heroic deed, Varatul, and one I'm extremely grateful for. Oh, by the way, Varatul, this is Lërawen. We're engaged for marriage!" He turned away from me and kissed her. It lasted about thirty seconds.

This was _NOT _the Fírieldûrbein I knew. Either the wound had affected him more severely than a scar, or he was hopelessly in love with this Lërawen, who I was growing to dislike more and more all the while. There was going to be a problem with this Lërawen, I could sense it. No good would come of this…


End file.
